


You, and Me, and Everything We've Seen

by auxbloood



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Child Loss, Cole Anderson Dies, Detroit Become Human Halloween 2020, Drinking to Cope, Drinking to Forget, End of the World, Family Loss, Friendship/Love, Human AU, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Human Isolation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Mentioned Cole Anderson, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Seeking a Friend at the End of the World, Suffering, Survival Horror, Zombie Apocalypse, viral outbreak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26983417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxbloood/pseuds/auxbloood
Summary: What do you remember, from the last day of your life before? What can you taste on the tip of your tongue? What do you smell? What do you hear?Is it the scent of burning bodies? The choking, acrid smoke in the air? Maybe it's the wailing. The sound of broken throats crying to the night, while they wait for their turn at death's door. Maybe it's the bite of blood, as it trickles down your throat, while you hold someone close to you as they begin to turn.What do you remember, my dear?What can I help you forget, my love?It's just you, and me after all. In this wide-eyed, fucked up world. You, and me, and everything we've seen.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	1. September 6th, 2037.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween/ October month everybody! Felt like writing a zombie/ human AU fic, so here's my offering for the DBH October Spooktacular.
> 
> For context, the year in this work is still 2038. Outbreak year, the end of the world, was 2018. For the purposes of this fic, we're going with human Connor, who was born in 2006, and is 32. Hank is slightly younger than his canonical age of 53 in game, and is 44, born in 1994.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, enjoy your blood, gore, and emotional suffering!

He starts the week off digging a grave.

The act itself is not something surprising, or unheard of, or any kind of shocking to someone like him. This is something that's been learned by most everyone now. Well, if you were decent, that is. If you wanted to actually feel like a human being. Yes, that's right. If you wanted to pretend you were alive, you learned to dig a grave. Three feet deep, five feet long. You could probably count the number of times you'll need to heave the spade without really trying. It's as easy as breathing, nowadays.

But things aren't that simple, are they?

Nonetheless, when the metal of the shovel hits the ground, every time the crude spade bites into the dirt, it feels sour.

Wrong, in the man's hands.

The crunch of the blade into the brown, fetid earth beneath his feet feels sick. Like a disease. Like a cough. As if the world has a plague, and he's trying to shove some desperate salve down its throat to stave off it infecting him, too.

_'Drink it up--'_

Crunch.

_'Take it--'_

Crunch.

_'Keep that infectious fucking cough in your parched little throat--'_

Crunch.

It feels wrong. To be doing this, it feels wrong. He was never supposed to be digging this grave. Fate made a mistake along the way.

But the man shakes his head, and decides that he's being irrational. Ridiculous. He's done this a dozen times by now, and the world isn't alive. The earth doesn't have any ulterior motives. The land isn't sick, it won't reach out and drag him under, too. This hasn't been personal. Mother Nature doesn't think, she doesn't act, she simply _is._ They're all just living on a pale little dot, somewhere in the middle of the infinite, and that's the way it is.

That's all there'll ever be.

So he carries on.

His spade finally hits a proper layer of moisture, and the man knows he's gone deep enough to get around the loose silt layer at the top. Loamy, fertile earth sits below. That's what you want when you're burying a body. It needs to sink in. This place where he's reached, that's enough. He stands.

Back straightened, his eyes flit over to the amorphous shape that's been sitting beside him. Brown. Wrapped in canvas he was lucky to find. Almost the same shade as the dirt that's clogging his every pore. He wonders, for a moment, just an intrusive little thought, how long he'll stink like clay and ground water.

Well. . . certainly not for long, for someone like him. The stench of sweat, and smoke, and fighting to stay alive another day, will cover it soon. 

He hopes.

Next to him, the brown on top of brown below shifts ever so slightly. He stills, at the sight. It's a bit ridiculous that he does so, because the man had immediately understood that it's the faint lakeshore breeze, blowing softly just from over the hill at their backs, rustling against the canvas. Even though he knows, I still doesn't stop his mind from wandering.

That's the kind of paranoia you're left with. When you let people in, that is. Or, become obsessed with keeping them away. Any slight movement could mean a million little things, because it's not just you out there.

It could mean intrusion, for example. The rustle of a reed behind you, or the crunch of a blade of grass in the middle of the night. Sometimes it signaled a man, with a gun, or a knife, or a motive, and that certainly meant the end of you.

But that's not what it means, today.

Sometimes, it meant fear. If you were walking along, and you saw something in the corner of your eye, and you suddenly smelled the lingering scent of mold, and dust, and sometimes ash if you found one of _them_ halfway burnt. That smell would go cascading along the faint breeze while that soft movement you saw, and before you knew it, one of _them_ was there before you, and you'd better hope your aim is good enough for the three bullets you've got left in the chamber.

But that's not what it means, today.

And just so often, if you play your cards right. . . That little swish of fabric, that soft little stepping, could mean someone is coming home. Coming back. Cresting just over the horizon behind with a pigeon, or a rabbit, something for supper. Maybe a board game they found, waterlogged in a long abandoned camper. Some children's plaything that everyone is too old for, now. And their eyes might light up when they show you, 'look, look what I found, isn't that cool?' You might find yourself playing all evening, until the sun rises over the shadows of the morning. And even further, there might be a few bullets among the game pieces, taken from that same camper if they were the lucky one. Maybe not as exciting as a distraction for a few hours, but it's nonetheless a blessing. No matter what it is, in this scenario, the sight, and the sound, is something good, and wanted. It reminds you, for just a little while, that maybe the world isn't as cruel as you once thought it was.

But that's not what it means, today.

This faint little movement means nothing else than the breeze. The thing it so lovingly caresses in the late morning light is nothing other than _nothing_ , in turn.

There is nothing here.

There are none of those things that the man can so easily imagine.

Only the breeze, and a bag full of _nothing_ , and a man.

So the man takes that little bit of _nothing_ , and begins to slide it over. Feet first, because that's always the easiest. Grip the ankles just where they meet the calf, heave with all of your muscles, sinew, and strength, and drag them over across the meadow floor. If you picked a good spot, they wouldn't snag on anything below them, and you could pull the _nothing_ right in to the dirt. Down to that hole you just dug, with little to no sacrifice but some sweat, and some calories, and hopefully no tears.

That's what you had to avoid more than anything; the tears.

Sorrow. Shame. Regret. Melancholy. You have to bury it all inside. Take it and throw it, if you have to. Those aren't things you can have, anymore. Not in this world.

Those aren't things that anyone can afford to possess. They aren't traded. They don't have value. All they are is a weight, in your chest, that you can't afford to bear.

There are only so many stupid decisions you can make in this world, before they fill you up, and you're too full inside for anything useful. You need room for hate. You need room for killing. You need room for survival. Those few things, those alone, were almost 99% of everything you could carry inside of you.

Yeah, that sounds right. Ninety-nine percent, with one little fraction left over.

That's how much room you had inside for something like the _nothing_ that he's burying below him. Because of this, the man doesn't dare to think about what that _nothing_ was, before. Doesn't want to think about how despite his own advice, it had taken up more than that one singular percent. He'd let it in too far. He'd let _nothing_ , turn into _something_.

But he can't think about this. Not now.

He can't, because it's gone and slid into that freshly dug hole, and now It's gone.

There it will stay.

He packs it tightly, makes sure the dirt and earth is strong. So it won't blow away, or melt with snow next winter, as the northern winds die, and Spring sets back in. He wants this one small part of the world to stay like this, forever. Safe, and warm, and wrapped up below. Just like you're sleeping.

At least, that's what he tells himself, so he can finally look away from that rough patch of darkness, amongst the green, and the flowers, and the little hill he'd found for the hole.

That's the lie that lets him walk away, and leave that part of himself behind.

He started the morning digging a grave.

Now the man is finished.

As he stands there, he doesn't know what to do. Where does he go, now that he is alone, and will always be, forever?

Where's a place that nobody, with nothing, should be?

He doesn't know. So he just walks. It's all he can think of to do.

He goes on for ten miles before he stops at a blacked out shell on the side of the road. Some kind of car, who cares which make or model. He would have known, before, but that knowledge isn't part of that 99% that matters anymore, so it's been gone a long while. He pulls out a weathered piece of paper; 2011, Rand McNally United States Interstate Map, sets it on top of the grit and metal, and looks down.

There's not a single place he can see that means anything to him. Anything at all. The only place that's meant anything at all for the past twenty years is a mile behind him, along with the crumbling city, and the hill, and the brown.

It's only a cemetery, now. Buried, and gone. He can't live with a ghost. He won't live with a ghost.

At least, that's the lie that lets him walk away.

While he crouches at the car, the man ends up making a wild, horrible decision. The kind that can get you killed. The kind that any sane person nowadays would hear about, and then warn everyone else that 'the man is out of his fucking mind, don't pay any attention to him, something's not right.' He unfurls the map, raises a lone finger, snuggled in a grimy swatch of once-upon-a-time soft cotton glove, and throws it down.

Wherever it lands, that's where he'll go.

Anywhere, wherever, no quarrel about where it is, or how long he needs to get there. He feels like a child, because while he strikes forth fate's will, he closes his eyes. He squeezes them shut, afraid to see where it goes, how many thousands of miles the journey may be.

How many steps he'll have to take, to put _nothing_ behind him. 

His finger finds what mark it will with a thump, and a smack on the stained paper. He opens up his eyes, just a hair, just wide enough so he can at least see if it's towards the North, South, East, or West.

West. It's West of where he is. For some reason that feels right; being able to follow the setting sun. It feels a little bit like destiny.

But then again, he doesn't believe in that sort of thing. There's no promise for anything in this world. There's no little red string. It's just sheer random chance, on that filthy, frayed paper, and so that's where he'll go.

When he thinks on it, he realizes the paper has chosen a state he hasn't been to in a very long time. One he never thought he'd see again, considering how much a pain in the ass it was to go anywhere, nowadays. People barely thought they'd see next month, let alone a change in scenery.

But it didn't matter, those thoughts. Those sentiments had no weight. They might have twenty years ago, but any memory along the road ahead of him is dead, and gone. So now, he would walk, towards nothing, until the nothing implored him to stop yet again.

The man puts the paper away. He fastens it tightly in the top left pocket, the one without holes, under the neoprene swish of what used to be lime green fabric, some time ago. It'll be dry there, just like it always is. That's the pocket he usually reserves for the one percent of things. That small, fractional place that's allowed to exist without value. The map just so happens to get a pass into those verdant pastures, only because it stays so dry. After today, it holds only one other thing along side it.

He doesn't want to think about it, that one little thing. While he clasps the pack around his waist, and his feet begin to carry him again, he wishes he could forget.

The man has a confession. A secret, only he knows. There's something there, that should have gone into the grave, right along with all of those other feelings. But it felt wrong to place it there, that little thing. It was the last bit he had of before. Of better days.

Of when he was something. Of when he had someone. A family.

So he'd decided to keep it, at the last possible second, before those ankles tumbled over, and the brown went to meet the dirt below. Just a little reminder. A half-percent, if you will.

If it filled him up past the brim, one day. . . spilled over too much. . . weighed him down. . . well. . . that would be that.

For now, it's carried with him; the man who feels like nothing. But wishes he were still something.

99.5% of a person.

The man started the week digging a grave, and now he is done, and now he is walking, because there is nothing else to do.

He heads off towards the sun.

The light is blinding. Around the thousandth step, he has a thought; there's nobody left to dig a grave for him, whenever he goes, too.

Oh well.

That's what you get for dying second. You're getting pretty good at that, aren't you old man? Being left behind?

Oh well.

Happy birthday, Hank Anderson.


	2. June 3rd, 2038.

It's June.

The cracked road juts out in jagged little intervals beneath the man's boots, and he carries on down the old remnants of what used to be Highway 90, heading West. There's a thousand miles ahead of him. Thankfully, the shoes he has are a fresh pair, at least to him, spotted just out the corner of his eye, on some skeleton long gone to dust. Sitting inside an old red car three days walk behind him, sealed on the inside.

There was no smell when he'd pried open the door to get them out. You may think there would be, but that's another thing you learned. If you entered a place, and there was no smell, you would probably be safe. Only _they_ have that putrid odor; putrefacting organs, sun-crisped skin, pus, and decay. This skeleton was not new, so there was no smell. Who knows how this man died. If he was one of _them_ , or if he took his own life. It didn't really matter, anyway. Too many years had passed since whoever the white bleached bones used to be passed, and left the body behind, so it was easy to just forget they were even there while he slowly slid them off, and onto his own living flesh.

The fit was perfect, really. Just worn enough to make sure he wouldn't blister on his calves trying to break them in. It was almost like a sign; that he was going the right way, and he'd made the right choice to leave.

No. That's wrong.

He shouldn't start lying, now that he's alone. That would be unwise. So, the truth. It's not a choice; it was necessity.

It was necessary for him to leave.

And the idea of those shoes being some divine message was ridiculous, anyway. He doesn't believe in signs.

He doesn't believe in anything at all.

So he leaves the lingering taste of something good for once behind, with the bones, and the car, on the highway beyond. There was no room for hope and sentiment in the little top pocket, under the green neoprene, with old Rand McNally.

No room for that kind of thing. No room at all.

. . .

He carries on.

He walks down the road.

He lets his mind wander, just a bit, lulled by the rhythm of his new boots stepping beneath him.

The man decides that the land is peaceful here. The sky stretches as tall as anything above him, clear, and blue. Tall. Proud. This part of the highway runs through basically the middle of nowhere, and it's untouched by the city fires, or the choke of civilization. The only things here are the smattering of Eastern White Pines and Chokecherry trees. Sassafrass, some maples, and pheasants, and undergrowth. Nobody else for miles around, more than likely. And there's something organically sweet wafting through the heady June air around him. What could that be? The man pauses, wondering, needing a drink of water anyway, and takes a deeper breath of the blue heavens above while he unscrews his canteen.

Maybe. . . Lily of the Valley? That could be it. He thought he remembered reading about those in his native flora handbook, all those years ago. Trying to learn what was edible, and what wasn't, and what he could use in New York State when he and. . .

Stop.

He learned it when he first got to New York State, all those years ago. It was what you had to do. You adapted, you learned those ways. Or you died.

Or you died.

That's all there is to say about that.

Flowers, and trees, and birdsong isn't really something he'd have thought about, in the before. Those two decades ago. Back when he was too busy with life, and work, and a kid, and a wife, to really take anything but that daily grind in.

Those are the kind of things that hit you, randomly, on days like this. When the wind's blowing softly, and the leaves and trees are rustling melodically. When you're overwhelmed by a serene sense of normalcy, just for a little while, among the madness, and death you know is out there, somewhere. When you forget, for a fraction of a second. Maybe, for a minute or two, you can bypass the things you know are lurking in the forest, always lurking, and just go back.

The man had always wondered if that was weird, for younger people. Anyone under, oh, mid twenties, or so, were probably too young for that. If they'd even made it this far, they didn't really know about before.

Not that all of it was good, or worth remembering, of course.

There was war. Waste. Excess, beyond anything and everything you could imagine. People fighting over things that didn't even matter, at all. Trust him, he knew. He was one of the choice people to deal with all of it, once upon a time. Rookie cop, fresh off the beat, back in 2018. Big dreams in a big lakeside city. Newly wedded wife, and a mortgage, and a baby in a crib.

Such alien words. Alien thoughts. Alien memories.

The man can't remember how much of that he really wanted, now. If he felt happy, or not in those days. It's odd, really. But back then, there was so much to have, that you just went along, and took it with stride, and tried to make it work, scraping by, no matter how you really felt.

How naive, that is, in hindsight. Thinking that with cars, and groceries, and Tylenol and flu shots, people were 'barely scraping by.'

Any kind of worry he'd had back then, before the world ended, it didn't really matter, did it?

But that's not the kind of thing you can know. Hindsight's only good for regretting your past. It doesn't do much else, really.

And that's all he has, now; regrets, in the past.

So the man carries on.

It's June.

That means that the sun is high while it pierces through that cloudless blue down at him. Under his pack, he's drenched. It's not like the man isn't fit, or able to power through physical things, far from it. Sometimes, it's just too damn hot, and all you want to do is find somewhere cool, and crave a non-existent beer. But he doesn't have the luxury of stopping, not now that he's on his own. So the man scratches at the moisture locked in his too-thick beard while he walks, sets an internal reminder to cut the damn thing, and decides to tie his flannel around his waist.

A stupid fucking move, in all honesty.

He wouldn't have done this, not before last year. But things have changed. He's not the same.

Normally, you don't uncover your arms; not for anything. You don't remove a layer of protection, just in case you ran into _them_. There were rules, like that. Things that you learned, or you died. If you were too idiotic to take your own words to heart, then good riddance. You couldn't pass your own brand of stupidity on anymore. For most folks, if you'd made it this long, there was usually some good advice to tell. If you ever managed to find yourself someone living, now, and you didn't immediately try and kill each other, you sat down together, and you talked about what it was that got you this far. Sometimes things would be genuinely good advice. Other times. . .

Taking off that checkered over-shirt, just for a few hours, just so he doesn't feel so exhausted, and slick, in the hundred degree heat, isn't something he'll ever mention over a campfire.

But nobody's around to see what a dumb decision it is, so he does it anyway, for a little while.

The man walks another fifteen miles.

He's making good pace, today.

When he crests over a little stretch of highway, so untouched that it looks like it could have been paved yesterday, believe it or not, he stops for another rest. The watch on his arm reads out 4:15pm. Almost time to stop.

He doesn't ever walk past 5:00. Didn't matter if it was Summer, or Winter, or any combination between, he made himself stop, find some good, solid shelter, and camped out for the evening. It had helped him last this long. Helped him and. . .

Goddamn it, just stop. Please. Stop thinking that way.

No, just him, now.

This kind of planning is one of those anecdotes that people take to heart. Around those campfires he'd talked about, before.

Preparation, that is.

While he contemplates fitting another mile in before he finds somewhere for the evening, he takes out the Rand McNally from his pack, and stretches it across the faded grey tarmac, pinpointing his location.

He's about twenty minutes past mile marker. . . 58, just past Cattauragus Creek. Closest major city would be. . . Erie. Another sixty-miles, give or take. He bites the inside of his cheek, picks at the blood caked to the split nail on his thumb while he calculates how long it'll take to hike that general stretch of highway.

At his pace, perhaps another 22 hours, or so. Two days walk. The man still hasn't decided if he wants to go around, or right on through the town. Last time he went through a city. . .

Last time he went through. . .

He. . .

Fuck. Just stop, Hank.

He sets the Rand McNally down, and rifles through his pack on the side of the road to distract himself, put anything in his hands but his own thoughts, taking a brief inventory.

Three days worth of food, maybe. One extra, 'just in case' ration strapped to the hip-pack at his side in case he ever was separated from the neoprene backpack. Water wasn't an issue, however, considering he'd just refilled his Camelbak, and his backup canteen as well in the creek. So all in all, with the food in mind, it was still less than a half-week before he needed to stop somewhere with decent options. It looked like Erie would be lining up perfectly with his need to go shopping.

_'Shopping.'_

Now _there's_ an antiquated concept.

The thought makes the man inadvertently smirk, and he shakes his head, sweating on the side of the road.

It had been. . . what? Twenty-years this time around, since E-Day. The thought of shopping, actually shopping for something to eat seems so. . .

Bizarre, really.

You hunted for your meals, now. Or, if you were on the road, it was just grab, and go. In, and out, before the constant paranoia of being followed and jumped caught up with you inside of an unlit market of old, or the house you'd deemed abandoned enough to loot.

Or before the other fear set in. The one you really don't want.

Claws. Teeth. Gnashing. The smell.

Always that _fucking_ smell.

That's how you knew there was one of _them_ there, more than anything else; the goddamn sickly sweet flavor of flesh, and bile. It made things more dangerous in that specific way, out here in the open. The wind didn't carry that scent as far as still air would indoors.

But even so, there were less of _them_ now, than there were before. He couldn't prove it, of course, not like there was any kind of census or measure. It was mostly a gut feeling, he supposed. Seasonal frosts always took out a good number, the man had always assumed. He'd found a good number of them frozen in the show over the years. In the Summer, some of them would inevitably de-generate into a pile of soup that could barely move anymore. He'd found those too. A few more knocked out.

But _they_ were always there. Always. You always planned for that, or you were a fucking idiot.

The man isn't an idiot.

And that's why he stops at 5:00pm.

His mind is made up; he's going to need the town. For tonight, he'll go ahead and set up for the evening, retrace his path just a little ways back so he can find that hill overlooking the creek. A good vantage point, all in all. If anyone was around, getting water or following the stream, he'd hear them splashing around below, and he could be up and out before they even knew he was nestled in the tree line.

If it was one of _them_ , he could slide himself down the embankment, and run along the creek until it let out towards the Lake Erie beyond.

Options.

Planning.

Decisions.

Mind made up, Rand McNally goes back in the pack, and over his shoulder go the few meager things that the man possesses, and he prepares to head back East.

He goes to clasp the final strap on his pack, before realizing he's still got that flannel around his waist.

The man sighs, scratches through that too goddamn long, scraggly grey beard once again, before he shrugs the pack off a final time. The knot around his waist unwinds, and he covers his arms, because the man isn't an idiot, is he? What the hell has he been doing, all day. This isn't like him, not these past twenty years. He's always been smart. He's always been careful.

Now isn't the time to start pretending that he isn't.

It's why he's still here.

Why others aren't.

That would be his luck, wouldn't it? The one day, the one _fucking_ day, he decides to do something silly, he gets bit on the goddamn arm.

And if he died out here. . . who would come along to take those boots off his feet, his one-day bleach-white bones?

They would just go to waste more than likely.

In the man's opinion, if he was going to die, he might as well bite a bullet somewhere where a man, walking a road just like he is, can make things useful.

Since nobody was there to bury him now, at least he wanted that.

For some reason, the man tries to think of something funny to say, along with the thought. It feels like the sentiment needs a punchline. He's always liked gallows humor. Not even the apocalypse could change that. So his mind ticks away, trying to come up with some slapstick for nobody.

He makes it all the way back to the creek before admitting that he can't think of anything, at all.

Fair enough; there wasn't much material to go on, anyway. Not much else to talk about, either.

Nobody to tell the joke to, anymore.

The trees weren't going to quip back. They can't laugh at a shitty old dad-humor joke. No sense in worrying about it.

So he doesn't.

The man finds the raised embankment, right where he saw it two hours ago. He takes off the pack, and sets about his way, just like he does every night. Two sets of strings, two each for the floor and eye level, and cans filled with bb pellets, lining a crude perimeter. Rudimentary alarm if anything approached him. Pack set behind a log, or a rock, or somewhere out of sight while he works, so it doesn't attract any attention, if someone would just so happen to be coming by.

These are the ways that the man stays alive.

Alive, and alone, on this pale blue dot, where we're nowhere at all.

He finishes early, a bit to his surprise. The watch at his wrist reads 5:49pm. Sundown isn't for another two hours, or so. So the man sets himself down, and takes inventory again, because there's nothing else to do. He lost the last book he had in the city when. . .

He spends the two hours trying to think of a punchline after all while he eats a meager meal.

But after all that time, he still can't think of a goddamn thing.

He's sweltering, and tired, and wishes he didn't have to wear long sleeves. He'd never liked them, really. Not once in his life. They made him look pudgy. Weird. Too bulky at the top. It's such a simple thing, but the man wishes he lived in a world where he could roll those sleeves up, and walk along that road, and not think about all of the things that could kill him in the forest, or the city he left behind.

It doesn't matter, though.

It's hot.

And there's no other world but this one.

It's June.

That's just the way it is.


End file.
